


Problems Aside

by Onehelluvapilot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Gen, Hurt Jon Snow, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Modern Era, Protective Jon Snow, Ramsay is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 13:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18551179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onehelluvapilot/pseuds/Onehelluvapilot
Summary: Jon Snow gets himself beat up and sent to the hospital, and calls his family when he needs a ride home.





	Problems Aside

**Author's Note:**

> Both the violence and sexual assault are just short mentions, though Jon's injuries are described and talked about a couple of times. 
> 
> Title from "King and Lionheart" by Of Monsters and Men, even though I told myself I would never do song lyrics titles.

Jon Snow sighs as he swings his legs over the side of his hospital bed. Between his cracked ribs and dislocated shoulder, he decides not to attempt to put on his now bloodstained jacket. He pulls his phone from the pocket instead, and tries to decide who to call.

An Uber would probably be the easiest and fastest choice at 2 am. The problem is that at the moment, Jon doesn't trust strangers enough to get a ride from one. Sam doesn't own a car, and at this time on a Friday night, all his other friends are likely passed out and/or too drunk to drive. Which leaves his family.

His foster brother Theon isn’t an option, given that he had moved away back to his birth family on an island a year ago. Robb still lives in town, but he’s probably sleep-deprived enough without Jon waking him up in the middle of the night. His new baby has that job covered. And it’s not Robb that Jon really wants to see either, but Sansa. He needs to reassure himself that she’s okay.

Arya is at the top of his recent contacts list, as she texts him nearly every day, and the rest of the family is scattered down through. His father’s number has fallen to near the bottom, though he's still listed as his ICE (In Case of Emergency). Thankfully, since Jon had been conscious when he was brought in, and since his injuries aren’t too severe, the hospital staff hadn’t thought it necessary to call. He hits dial himself now. It’s a while until anyone picks up, and when someone does, it isn’t Ned.

“Jon?” Catelyn queries. Her voice is at once sleepy and cautious. Almost suspicious. He’s surprised she would pick up at all after seeing the caller ID.

“Is Father there?” Jon asks. It hurts to talk, on account of the bruising on his throat where he’d been slammed up against a wall and choked, but he doubts that his stepmother can hear any difference in his already rough voice.

“He’s sleeping, as any reasonable person would be at two in the morning. What do you need him for?”

“A ride home.”

“Jon, if you’re drunk…” Catelyn warns immediately. He wishes that for once she wouldn’t jump to the wrong conclusions about him.

“I’m not. I need a ride home from the hospital.” There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. She wouldn’t really hang up on him after that, would she?

“I’ll come pick you up,” his stepmother agrees. “Give me twenty minutes.”

 

It’s half an hour later when she pulls into a parking space near the front entrance of the hospital. Catelyn was intending to park and then come in to get Jon, but he’s been waiting outside and begins to limp towards the car as soon as he recognizes it. She is pretty sure that patients are supposed to be taken out of the hospital in a wheelchair even if they can walk, but it doesn’t surprise her that Jon isn’t following that rule. The Starks, even the ones who don’t share the name, are fiercely independent and famously stubborn when it comes to doing things themselves. It seems more than likely in her mind that the hospital staff had tried to get him to follow the rule, especially given how badly her stepson is limping, and finally simply given up on it as a battle they couldn’t hope to win.

The whole ride over here Catelyn had thought that she was picking Jon up because he’d gotten drunk, done something stupid, and broke his arm or something. When he comes into view, she realizes that isn’t the case. His arm is in a sling, but that isn’t all. There’s also a long cut running across, but thankfully not through, his right eye, and without his signature high-collared coat, she has an easy view of the black and blue bruising on his throat in the shape of a man’s hand. He carries himself stiffly and it’s with great care that he eases himself into the passenger seat of the minivan. 

Catelyn supposes this should be the last thing on her mind at the moment, but it occurs to her that she doesn’t think she’d ever seen him sit there before. When the whole family was in the car, Ned would drive and she would sit next to him, and otherwise, someone else would always call shotgun. More often than not, Jon would sit in the far back with Arya and Rickon, with the dogs splayed over their laps.

“Seatbelt,” she prods, the familiar motherly but uncaring word and tone so quick to pass through her lips. She regrets it as soon as it does; something so impartial should not be her first word to him here. Jon doesn’t seem surprised by it, and reaches up to the belt. With only his left hand though, he fumbles, and cannot get it to click into the buckle. Catelyn leans over and helps him with it, as she might’ve done with Baby Rickon.

“Thank you,” Jon sighs. He leans back against the headrest and she pulls out of the parking space. The silence sits in the air between them as she weaves her way out of the hospital parking lot and onto the empty road.

“What happened to you, Jon?” She eventually asks, gently. She may not harbor as much love for him as they each would like, but he did still grow up in her home, brother to her children, and she doesn’t like to see him hurt like this.

“I got in a fight,” he says, reticent as always. It surprises her that he’d even called. He had moved out over two years ago to join the National Guard, and Catelyn thought that by now he would have other people to turn to for help.

“Aye, I can see that. With whom?”

“A bastard named Ramsay and a couple of his other bastard friends at a party,” Jon snarls. His vehemence surprises Catelyn. All throughout his childhood, Jon had been slow to anger. She supposes, though, that being beat up bad enough to be sent to the hospital is enough to rile even him. 

“Ramsay, did you say? Ramsay Bolton?”

“I don’t know his last name, but I imagine there can’t be many Ramsays around. Why?”

“Roose Bolton was a business contact of your father, until he got too ambitious. He tried to cut us out of some critical negotiations and steal the company for himself while it was without a head. Ned caught on before it happened, thank the gods. After he was found out though, Roose even tried to crash Robb’s wedding, if you remember.” She suspects Jon might not; he and Theon were both incredibly hungover from the bachelor party. “All around evil man. And everything I’ve heard of the family says that his bastard is worse.”

“Aye, I’d be inclined to agree with that. Coward wouldn’t even fight me one on one. Had his friends hold me while he slashed my face. I'm lucky he didn’t carve my eye out.” Jon lightly touches the stitched-together cut that runs through his eyebrow and down his cheek, as if confused by it, or perhaps reminding himself of its presence or of how he got it.

“You should press charges,” Catelyn encourages.

“Not sure that’s a good idea, given how I technically started the fight.”

“Why?” 

Jon sighs. “It was over a girl. Ramsay had drugged her I think, or at least gotten her drunk enough that she could barely walk. He started taking her out to his car, and, well, I didn't want to see her hurt.”

“You did the right thing,” Catelyn says without hesitation. If it was one of her girls… she can't even imagine. 

“I know. I just wish it didn’t hurt so much. At least I gave as good as I got.”

“I don’t doubt that.” When it came to protecting people, especially those who couldn’t protect themselves, she would put money on Jon alone against ten men in a fight. He was fierce in his care for others, and seemed to grow to care, and to love, quickly and easily as well. No thanks to her own mothering, Catelyn admits to herself. At least she hadn’t ruined him by not paying him any attention as a child.

She continues driving until she makes the turn off the main through way into their neighborhood, then stops abruptly when she realizes Jon doesn't live with them anymore. At least it's late, so there's no one behind her to rear end them. “Sorry, I was running on autopilot there. I assume you want to go back to your own apartment.” She starts trying to ration where the best place to turn around is, before Jon speaks.

“Not necessarily. If it isn't too much trouble, it might be nice just to come home. I'd like to see everyone.”

“Alright,” Catelyn agrees, and resumes driving to her own house. She gets the feeling that there’s something he’s not telling her, but she’ll wait and let him reveal it, or not, on his own terms. “You can stay in your old room for the rest of the night.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he sighs, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. He almost doesn’t seem to notice what he’s said. Catelyn does. She would never miss it, coming from him. She remembers and can count on one hand each time he’s called her that since the age of five.

“It's the least I can do,” she says, and realizes how much less than the least she's been doing his whole life.

They pull into the garage, and she helps him with the seatbelt buckle again. He walks into the house like he still belongs there, like he ever belonged there, and nearly receives a fire-poker to the face for his arrogance.

“Arya, stop! It’s just me!” he barks, catching the end of the iron rod with his good hand before it sends him back to the ER with another gash down his face.

“Jon?” his youngest sister asks cautiously, lowering her makeshift sword as he lets go of his end of it. Nymeria, standing behind her, stops growling and instead pads forward to sniff the newcomer. She must be able to smell Ghost still on him. Those two wolves had been nearly as close as their people. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting attacked by my own sister, apparently. What are you doing?”

“I heard the garage door. Thought someone was trying to break in,” the girl explains.

“So you chose to go attack him?” Catelyn asks. “Not to go wake your father?” Arya shrugs and he mother sighs in exasperation. “Well, no one's trying to break in, so off to bed with you.”

“But Jon's here!” she protests.

“Aye, and I'd like to be off to bed too.”

“But you don't live here anymore. And what happened to your face?” Arya pesters him for more information as she follows him slowly up the stairs. Nymeria, in turn, is right on her girl's heels. “Did you get into a fight? Did you win?”

Lady Stark lets her daughter follow after her brother. He's always been close with her, and arguably better at controlling the wild child of the family than Catelyn herself is. If Jon wants Arya gone, he can probably throw her out himself, but something makes  
her think that tonight, it would be nice for him not to be alone.

 

Jon wakes up the next morning to Nymeria still sprawled across his legs, though Arya is gone. Early morning soccer game, if he remembers correctly. She said she would watch over him until she had to leave for it. After she questioned him incessantly, of course. But she also helped him take off his sling so he didn't accidentally strangle himself with it in his sleep, and her hands ghosting over his shoulder eased the memory of the doctor popping the joint back into place.

“C'mon pup, get off,” he orders, kicking at Nymeria under the blankets. There’s a second where the dog just looks at him, and he worries Arya has ordered her to keep him there. She stands up after a second though, careful not to put any of her enormous paws on him, and leaps off the bed, landing hard enough to make the floor shake.

Jon follows after just a second, considerably less gracefully. His ribs ache, and it takes a good few deep breaths until he gets the pain under control enough to stand up and start walking downstairs. Rickon is perched in front of the tv, watching Saturday morning cartoons, with Bran in his wheelchair beside him. The younger boy doesn't seem to notice his entrance, too engrossed in his show, and the older just gives Jon a solemn nod, as if he already knows everything he needs to know.

Ned is at the stove, making breakfast. Even from the back, Jon can see that he's wearing the “World's Best Dad, World's Worst Cook” apron that they'd bought him for Father's Day one year. It's an exaggeration; he actually makes eggcellent breakfasts.

“Have enough for one more?” Jon asks. He lets his lips twist up into one of his all too rare smiles as his dad turns around.

Ned pauses for just a second, a look of more concern than surprise on his face, before stepping forward and wrapping his son in a massive bear hug. It’s a little more gentle than usual, but still tight and strong enough to squeeze a muffled groan out of Jon. He does hug his father back for a second with his good arm before he lets go. After a glance at his arm in a sling, Stark plants a hand firmly on only his kid’s left shoulder.

“I'm glad to see you son.”

“It's good to see you too, Father.”

“How bad did they work you over?” Ned asks, looking his kid over as he steps back slightly. Catelyn must’ve already told him about the fight.

“They did nothing that won’t heal, though this one will leave a scar.” He gestures at the gash over his eye. Hopefully the stitches will ensure it heals cleanly, and the blemish won’t be too noticeable. “Besides that, it’s just the bruised throat, dislocated shoulder, and a couple of cracked ribs.”

“I assume you returned the favor?”

“Well, I don’t think I sent them to the ER, but I certainly ruined their night.” Jon takes a seat at the breakfast counter while his father turns back to the pancakes before they burn. “They deserved an awful lot more.”

“Aye, men like that deserve horrible deaths,” Ned agrees. “Here, eat up,” he says as he slides the younger man a plate stacked high with pancakes and bacon. While he cooks, he asks Jon about more pleasant matters. Somewhat more pleasant at least, because though National Guard work is important, it’s rarely enjoyable. 

Jon misses one of his questions though, as he’s too distracted by the ghostly figure that has appeared at the top of the stairs. Sansa, in her white nightgown, holds his gaze for a second. Her expression, of surprise and deep concern, mirrors his own as the memory from last night hits him at the sight of her red hair. It must be the sight of his injuries, or mere presence perhaps, that surprises her. She silently flees back into her room, and Jon hastily looks back down at his plate.

“You want another?” Ned asks, noticing his son's empty plate. 

“Sure,” Jon agrees, and his father slides him another pancake. He's about halfway through with it when a familiar, but less disdainful than usual, voice makes him look up again.

“Here.” Sansa is holding one of his old jackets out to him at slightly less than arm’s length. He must've lent it to her before he moved away, and now she's giving it back. It has one of his distinctive high collars and will hide the bruises on his neck well if he wants.

“Thank you, Sansa,” Jon says as he takes the coat from her gently. “It’s good to see you.” She hesitates a second before lunging forward and hugging him tightly. She squeezes his ribs but he does not let go, wrapping an arm around her back instead.

“I have to go,” she says when she pulls away. “I promised Arya I’d be there to watch at least part of her game. Will you still be here when I get back?”

“Aye, I hope to be,” he agrees. “I’ll see you then, little sister.”

Sansa just nods, and leaves the kitchen through the garage. Jon turns back to his father after listening to the sound of a car pulling away. Ned had clearly watched the exchange, and wisely not said anything.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with that girl,” he says now with a sigh. “She came home past midnight last night, so drunk she could hardly stand. Since she started high school she’s started going out to parties, drinking, hanging around with that boy Joffrey, and all other manner of trouble. I wish you and Robb were of an age to overlap with her at school, so at least she’d have someone to look after her.”

“She’ll grow up,” Jon tries to assure his father. “I don’t think it will take long for her to learn to be more careful.”

“I know. I just hope that until she does, she’ll have guys like you to look out for her.”

“Aye, me too.”

Jon’s still holding the coat she had given him, and as he goes to hang it up on the back of his chair, he realizes the weight of it is off. He looks in the pockets. In the right one, he finds a bottle of what he eventually recognizes as concealer. “For the bruises,” the label taped to it reads in Sansa’s neat handwriting. In the left pocket, he finds a note that says simply “Thank you.”

Jon hopes that for as long as it takes him to learn to be careful, he’ll have women like her looking out for him.

**Author's Note:**

> I love getting any kind of feedback. Comments absolutely make my day!


End file.
